


I Die Because I Do Not Die

by Masu_Trout



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Brief Mention of Child Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Late Night Conversations, Madokami, Not Rebellion Story Compliant, Post-Canon, Reunions, World-Weary Homura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 18:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5015431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You're here,” Homura said. “You're really here.”</i>
</p><p>Years later, the goddess Madoka visits her most devoted follower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Die Because I Do Not Die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Haro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haro/gifts).



Lately, every girl she met seemed to look like Madoka.

Not entirely, of course—Homura wasn't going any more insane than before. She wasn't seeing Madoka when no one was there. It was just in the little things: the curve of one's smile, the triumph in another's face when beating down a wraith, the fear in all their faces when they realized what exactly their eventual fate would be.

(They were all so _young_. Homura couldn't ever remember being quite so naïve.)

Homura had told herself she'd stop trying to help. She was here to protect Madoka's legacy, not tutor every twelve-year-old girl with dreams bigger than her brain. The girls of this new world already had it so much better—Mami or Kyoko could help them if they really wanted to, but Homura was done with wasting her time like that.

But...

Every so often a girl would come by with a question one of the others couldn't answer, or a trick she needed a more experienced perspective to help perfect. She couldn't very well turn them down.

(Not when they looked so much like Madoka.)

“So,” the girl sitting across from her said, “I was thinking that if I form my magic into spears, I could use it as a way to trap the wraiths until I can get in closer.” She frowned, worrying at her lip. “But the shape just doesn't seem to come out right for me—the magic dissolves before I can focus it all the way.”

This one especially was tiny; her feet dangled below the booth as she spoke, not even long to touch the floor. Occasionally she kicked the table. She couldn't have been older than eleven, but her eyes held a focus more piercing than most women three times her age.

“Hmm,” Homura said. She took a sip of her soda, let the bubbles burst in her mouth. Technically she didn't need to eat or drink—it was more efficient to simply rely on her magic to sustain this body—but those around her tended to get uncomfortable if she didn't. And anyway, it was a good way to stall; despite the telepathy they all shared, most girls tended to stick to the normal pauses that a human's body would require.

It was difficult for Homura to remember sometimes. (Breathe, blink. Drink something where others can see you, eat something when it's lunchtime. Sleep a few hours a night, or at least tell people that you did.) She'd completely given up on the normal rhythms of the human body back then, and even after years in this new world they still seemed alien to her. 

(As alien, she suspected, as she seemed to most normal magical girls.)

“The problem,” Homura said finally, “is that your magic is defensively-oriented. Shields, aspides, bucklers... people whose weapons form in that shape don't do well directing their magic offensively. You'd be better off creating walls instead, or supplementing your power with conventional weapons.”

The girl scowled. “Walls are no good—I want to be able to pin them down, not just annoy them!”

“Keep your voice down." The restaurant was crowded, even at this time of night, and the last thing they needed was people paying attention to the two of them. Most of those who overheard their conversation would assume they were talking about a video game of some sort, but there was no telling who would listen more closely.

Magical girls never looked _normal_. Not after the first few weeks. Homura'd had protective services called for her more than a few times when she was younger.

The girl looked like she was ready to get even angrier, but then her shoulders slumped and she leaned back against the upholstery of the booth. “You're so stuffy. It's annoying.”

Homura shrugged. She would've rather had the conversation on a rooftop, but the girl insisted on this restaurant. She didn't trust Homura (smart), and seemed to believe the presence of witnesses would protect her if this meeting turned sour (foolish). “I'm just telling you what I know.”

“I asked you because I thought you'd have _advice_ , not because I wanted a lecture on what's possible.” She snorted, fingers clutching the edge of the table so hard she was in danger of warping it. “What do you think you know about shields, anyway?”

“Enough,” Homura said. 

A lie. She held lifetimes upon lifetimes worth of information on shields, grenades, guns, bazookas, any weapon she could find, any tactic she'd thought might help. And in the end it hadn't even been close to enough.

The non-answer seemed to infuriate the girl further. For a moment her gaze drifted towards the ring on her middle finger—Homura tensed, her own ready to be called forth on a millisecond's notice—but then she remembered where she was. 

“You're _useless_ ,” she snapped instead, sliding out of the booth. Her feet hit the floor with an angry _thud_ , and then she was stomping out the door.

Homura watched her go. If she had parents, they were probably asleep in their beds, completely unaware their child was out late at night picking fights with strange women in dirty fast food restaurants.

She examined her own hands—they were steady, unwavering. Sleep deprivation wasn't hitting too badly yet, but she could feel the tension of a headache gathering in the back of her mind. She'd be aching soon enough if she didn't do something about it.

Sleep or magic, then? She didn't have much of anything to do tonight; the wraiths were quiet and neither Kyoko or Mami had called her with any sort of news or favors to ask. She could probably afford to spare a few hours.

As she was thinking, someone slid into the empty seat across from her. Homura looked up, scowling, ready to tell off a concerned employee or overly-friendly college boy. 

She froze.

“Hello,” Madoka said. 

She was Homura's age, dressed in a soft grey hoodie and dark jeans. Her hair—longer than it had been when they were children, but not the extravagant length of her god-self—was pulled into a high ponytail.

Gold ribbons, Homura noticed distantly. She still had the red ones.

“How..?”

Madoka smiled softly, drumming her fingers against the table. “It's so nice to see you, Homura.”

Everything about her looked absolutely normal. She could have been just another student spending a late night in the city; the only thing that hinted towards the sheer impossibility of her presence was the ring sitting on her middle finger and the matching pink diamond that decorated one nail.

Homura snuck a glance around the room. The walls weren't melting, the tables weren't growing or shrinking. There were no monsters appearing before her. If she was hallucinating, then it was a very quiet sort of hallucination.

Slowly, shakily, she reached out and took Madoka's hand. 

It was warm and solid. Rough callouses decorated her index, middle, and ring fingers—the sign of a practiced archer. Under the skin, a steady pulse beat.

“You're here,” she said. “You're really here.”

Madoka smiled. “For tonight, yes.” She adjusted her touch so that she was holding Homura's hand instead of being gripped by it.

A sudden thought struck Homura. “Are—are you here to take me?” Her soul gem didn't look _that_ dark, but that didn't always give the whole picture. Perhaps she was more distressed than she realized, perhaps her magic was fading, perhaps-

Homura's heart plunged into her stomach as Madoka shook her head. “No, not you.”

“Ah.” She swallowed down the bitter disappointment, told herself it was completely ridiculous to feel _jealous_ of some soon-to-be-dead girl. “Then...”

Someone else, then? But Homura surely would have noticed if there was another magical girl besides them in the restaurant. 

Except...

Oh, of course. There had been one until only a moment ago.

“That girl?” Homura hadn't bothered to take a close look at her gem. Her stomach lurched as she thought back: the nervousness in the girl's voice as she'd explained her strategy, and the hurt and anger written all over her face when Homura had dismissed her idea so quickly. “I didn't-” 

Kyoko and Mami were used to her by now, and she rarely talked to anyone else these days. She'd forgotten how emotionally fragile children could be. 

She tried to force words past her lips, but the question wouldn't come.

_Did I kill her?_

Madoka squeezed Homura's hand, bringing her attention back to her body. “Don't worry. It's not because of you.”

It wasn't until she started breathing again that Homura realized she'd ever stopped.

“I didn't know you could read minds now,” she said, a bit grumpily. 

Madoka laughed. “I promise I can't! I just know you too well, Homura. I've never met anyone else so convinced of their own worth as a punching bag.”

Homura frowned, and was rewarded with another laugh from Madoka.

“It is that girl, though, isn't it? Why you're here.”

“Well...” Madoka said. “Yes, I suppose.” She reached out with her free hand, sliding Homura's soda towards her end of the table. Homura couldn't even imagine protesting—she was too entranced by the sight of Madoka's mouth on the drink, her pink tongue poking out from between pearly white teeth as she sucked on the straw. Another piece of evidence that she was really _here_.

Homura decided to take the cup home. She could stick it on her bookshelf or next to her bed, it didn't matter. Just so long as she had it somewhere she could look at it.

After a long drink, Madoka spoke again. “The girl you met with—Ami—doesn't believe you. Later tonight, she's going to go looking for a wraith to fight so she can try a new strategy of her own.” Madoka grimaced. “It... won't go very well.”

Homura could imagine. 

She glanced towards the door. “Can I stop her?”

Madoka shrugged and smiled gently at her. “I don't know. I don't know the course of any particular fate until we're already on it. But... well, she seems like a very headstrong young girl.”

And Homura was a spectacularly horrible negotiator. 

She put her head in her hands, concentrated on breathing. It wasn't anything to do with her. That girl wasn't her responsibility. But she was just so tired of not being able to help anyone.

A few seconds later, she jumped as warm arms wrapped around her shoulders. She hadn't even heard Madoka move.

“It's okay,” Madoka said softly. “It's not your fault.”

There was no judgment or pity in her voice, just reassurance. With a tone like that, it was almost possible for Homura to believe her.

Madoka pressed a kiss against the top of her head, then another on the side of her ear. She knew she should protest—they were in public, people might say something—but she could tell without even glancing up that no one would be looking at them.

They weren't in another dimension. This was no witch's labyrinth. But Madoka and Homura were in a world of their own nonetheless, a spot in space and time made for just the two of them.

“It'll just be us tonight, Homura. Let's spend some time together, okay?”

“Is... is it really okay?” There was an awful-sounding quaver in her voice. She couldn't stand it; she was supposed to be strong in front of Madoka. What use was a wish if she was too weak to uphold it?

“Absolutely,” Madoka said firmly. “I have to be here anyway. It's not so much extra magic to make myself apparent to you too.” Madoka leaned into Homura's form. Her warmth breath tickled the back of Homura's neck. “And anyway, it's worth it to be able to talk to you.”

There had to be something she wasn't mentioning—there was no way it could take only a _little_ magic to manifest herself so completely, but (shamefully, selfishly), Homura realized she didn't want to argue. There was nothing she wanted more than this.

“Okay,” she said finally. She lifted her head to look once more at Madoka and gave her best attempt at a smile. Something sharp, like excitement and warmth and peace all wrapped together, was blooming in her chest. “Okay. I'd like that a lot.”


End file.
